


Sweet Thing

by ChloeWeird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Baking Competition, Alternate Universe - Human, Baker Derek, Baker Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, M/M, Not intended to be crack but it might have ended up that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:32:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baking competition AU. Derek and Laura have been saving up for years to be able to go back to Beacon Hills and re-open their parents’ bakery. Competing in Cake Face-Off could finally make their dream a reality, but first, they have to win. It won't be so easy when Derek is distracted by the cute guy on the other team. </p><p> </p><p>  <em>“And...we’re rolling.”</em></p><p>  <em>“I’m Derek. I live in New York.”</em><br/> <br/><em>The director--John, or Jeff or something--got out of his chair and came over to in front of Derek’s stool. “That’s great, Derek. Could you give us just a bit more than that? You have to make the audience want to root for you, you know?”</em></p><p>  <em>Derek nodded, and Jerry went back to his seat. The cameras lined up again, and they gave Derek his cue. </em></p><p>  <em>“I’m Derek. I live in New York. We want to start a bakery in California.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was born of a Cupcake Wars marathon my friend embarked on and her subsequent request for Derek baking his feelings. 
> 
> I watched Ultimate Cake-Off for research(and happened to see the episode Arden Cho was on) and I have poached a few details from the episodes I watched, though there are a number of changes to the set up/rules. 
> 
> It isn't laid out in much detail in the fic, but the Hale Family(including Peter) died in a house fire that was a complete accident. Everyone is human, so hunters aren't a thing.
> 
> Thanks to Tranquillity for the beta :)

“And...we’re rolling.”

“I’m Derek. I live in New York.”

Derek hadn’t noticed how loud the ceiling fan was until it was the only sound in the room. The cameraman straightened up from his viewfinder and frowned, and the director said, “cut.”

The director--John, or Jeff or something--got out of his chair and came over to in front of Derek’s stool. “That’s great, Derek. Could you give us just a bit more than that? You have to make the audience want to root for you, you know?”

Derek nodded, and Jerry went back to his seat. (It was a normal folding chair, not one of those fancy cloth and wood things that he might have expected.) The cameras lined up again, and they gave Derek his cue. 

“I’m Derek. I live in New York. We want to start a bakery in California.” 

He knew it wasn’t enough the moment he was finished speaking, but he couldn’t think of a single other thing to say, so he waited for the director come over again. He gave Derek another pep talk about how important it was that the viewers know the _real him_ and wanted him to succeed. Derek smiled tightly and agreed, while inwardly scoffing at the implication that a few cobbled-together clips of him talking about himself was enough for the people watching this god-awful show to _know_ him. 

“I’m Derek. My sister and I live in New York, but we grew up in California. My mom taught me everything she knew before she died. We want to start a bakery in our old home town. Is that enough?”

“Cut. Yeah, Derek, great stuff. I want to do it once more. This time, I want you to tell us more about your mom, how much she meant to you, and how she’s going to be guiding your progress today.”

Derek sighed, but nodded again. His knuckles turned white on the lip of stool. This was going to be a long day. 

**

Derek really shouldn’t have even tried to say no. Once Laura got something into her head, she wouldn’t let go. She was like a pit bull in that way, though Derek had only ever said that to her face once, and it had ended very poorly for him(and for his action figures, which had never been the same, even though Mom had helped him paint the faces back on.)

Neither of them had ever watched a lot of cooking shows. As much as Derek loved cooking, coming home from a long day of preparing food to watch sparkly-toothed people preparing food on TV wasn’t really his idea of relaxing. 

So, when he came home to Laura watching some loud, multi-coloured, high-stakes cake show, he really should have known something was up. In retrospect, he’d blame it on the fact that he’d been at the end of an 8 day stretch of working 10 hours a day in a hole in the wall restaurant in Queens, and he was dead on his feet. He didn’t sit down next to his sister because he could be sure what kind of food they were likely to be cooking on the show, and he thought if he saw another cannoli in the next 12 hours, he would break something, and their TV might have been small and old, but it would work better if there wasn’t a fist-sized hole in it. 

The next morning(or afternoon, technically), when Laura was still watching the same program, that was when Derek started to worry. He sat down next to her, munching his Cinnamon Toast Crunch loud enough that Laura’s glazed over eyes narrowed in annoyance and shifted over to him. 

“What’s this?” he said, around another giant bite of processed sugar. 

“Ew,” Laura said, and punched him in the arm. He rubbed his shoulder, then dropped his spoon back into the bowl. 

“Seriously. Why are you watching this trash?”

“Why do you eat that garbage?” She flopped on her back and draped her legs across Derek’s lap, barely managing to miss the bowl and get toxically sweet milk all over both of them. 

“Because it tastes good. And I’m too tired to make a full English.” 

“You’re literally a chef. Doesn’t it offend your palette or something?”

“Not anymore than those smiling potato things should offend yours. You’re almost as good a cook as I am. And don’t try to deny it. I saw them in the back of the freezer and very kindly didn’t eat the rest of the bag. ” 

Laura jammed her toe into Derek’s thigh, but went back to watching the show, where a frazzled looking man was painting sugar flowers faster than Derek would have thought was possible with hands that unsteady.

“That’s a lot of flowers,” he said.

“Uh huh,” Laura replied, absently, her eyes gaining that shiny, vacant look again. “He has to make enough to cover the whole bottom tier of his cake.” 

“Why?’

“If he doesn’t, the silhouette just won’t be as _wow_."

“Okay.” 

They lapsed back into silence, and watched as spray guns jammed, sugar sculptures cracked and chocolate stubbornly refused to set. There were two teams, he found out, and they were racing against a giant clock to create a better cake than their opponent. It was all interspersed with cringingly dramatic interviews and dire commentary from the host. It was awful, and Derek hadn’t realized how sucked in he’d gotten until he went to take another bite of his cereal and it was soggy beyond all recognition. 

He gave up on his first attempt at breakfast, and went back into the kitchen to start something else. Their pantry was pretty bare, since neither of them were home very much, but they had enough flour, egg and milk for him to throw into the waffle iron Laura had bought on a whim and shoved in the back of the cupboard. They even had a few softening strawberries he could resurrect to go on top. 

Sunday morning breakfasts used to be a big thing for their family. The oven would get turned on at 7AM and not stop churning out baked goods and breakfast casseroles until at least noon. His cousins and his aunt and uncle would come over and they’d catch up on the minutiae of the week and stuff themselves with muffins and cinnamon buns and eggs. 

Derek’s lips trembled into a smile at the same time his heart ached with the tenderness of that memory, so he pushed it aside and finished making the batter as quick as he could. While the iron was warming up, he wandered back over to the couch where the show was wrapping up. The judges were making their final decisions, and the host was drawing out the announcement as long as he could. Finally, he called the name of the man who’d made so many flowers, enough, in the end, to cover the entire bottom _two_ tiers of his monstrous cake. 

Laura whooped and punched her fist in the air as they played out the triumphant ending sequence. Derek was about to ask, for a third time, why Laura had suddenly developed an interest in professional fondant wrestling when the credits finished and a placard flashed on the screen asking if he thought he could be the next Cake Face-Off champion! He stilled, his brain turning over the question as he looked at Laura, who was similarly frozen on the couch. One look at her face confirmed his suspicions. 

“Laura.” 

She leapt from the couch and stood in front of him, grabbing his arms so he wouldn’t walk away. “Derek, I know what you’re thinking.” 

“Laura, no.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I think this could really work.” 

“Yes, it is crazy. And this is me, saying no.”

“But, if you could just give it a minute, it might start to make sense.”

“Okay. Hmm, let me think on that. No.”

“Derek, listen.” She moved her hands from his biceps to his wrists, holding them tightly in her comforting grip. “The person who wins gets a 30 thousand dollar prize. That’s a lot of money.” 

“30 thousand, huh?” He furrowed his brow, like he was lost in deep thought. “You might be onto something, Laura. That might be just enough to buy us a parking space for a hot dog cart.”

“Yeah, here in New York. But, between that and the savings accounts Mom and Dad started for us, there’d finally be enough to buy and furnish a fully equipped bakery in Beacon Hills.”

“Beacon Hills.” The two words ended his urge to fight her earnestness with sarcasm. 

“Yes. Derek, the bakery. Or, I guess, what used to be the bakery. I think they turned it into a dentist’s office. Regardless, the property is for sale again. I emailed the realtor, she says that she hasn’t gotten any bites yet, and she’d wait for us to come up with what we need.”

“But don’t we already have--”

“Yes, technically, we have enough money between us to purchase the space, but it would put a huge dent in what we have, and what’s the point of having the building if we don’t have the money to trick it out?”

Derek stared down at Laura’s hopeful, shining eyes, trying to remember the last time he’d seen her so excited. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Of course. Did you think I wanted to be a waitress forever? I mean, sure, I make good tips, but that’s not what Mom and Dad wanted for me. And they didn’t want you to be filling cannolis all day, everyday for someone else’s shop. You’re better than that.” She put her hand on his cheek when he tried to turn it away, hiding from her undeserved praise. “We could do this together, Derek.” 

“Stop it. You’re making my teeth hurt.” She rolled her eyes, but held her tongue while he thought over everything she’d said. She was right about them both being stuck in a job they didn’t want. It had taken Derek years to work up the ladder high enough that he could be in charge of his own dessert station, but he was still on someone else’s payroll, and making what they wanted him to make. In this case, cannoli. So much cannoli. He was almost 30, had more years of experience in the kitchen under his belt than most of the people who were senior to him, and he was done with it. Done with the place he worked, done with New York. It would hurt, like an old wound flaring up in winter, but he wanted to go home. 

“Fine,” he said, and Laura’s face lit up. “But, I can’t--” he faltered, suddenly terrified in the face of her boundless hope. “I can’t promise that I’ll be any good at this. We might not win.” 

“I know.” She reached up a hand to squeeze his shoulder, then ruffled his hair, like she used to do when they were kids. “But, we’ll do our best to get you ready.”

“Ready? What--”

“Sit down, baby bro. I have 3 more hours of this on the DVR.” 

Derek groaned and went back to his waffles.


	2. Chapter 2

When the director finally released him from his interview session, Derek wandered around the edges of the bustling set in a daze. Filming of the show would start in about an hour, an assistant had told him, and he was free to do whatever he wanted until then, as long as he didn’t get in the way. Dodging speed-walking interns and stepping over bundles of thick wires, all he wanted to do was find a quiet corner where he could review the choices he’d made in his life to land him in this hellhole.

He spotted a corner that seemed to be less busy than the rest of the big room and made a beeline for it. There was a table tucked against the wall, with an assortment of stale powdered donuts and sickly sweet pastries atop it. Derek figured he’d stumbled on the craft services the assistant producer had instructed him to help himself to. Derek looked disdainfully at the limp fruit tray, and thought about his and Laura’s breakfast of hearty oatmeal, swirled with brown sugar and cinnamon. 

Laura had been barely awake, nodding off into her bowl. Unsurprising, considering it had been 4AM and neither of them had slept well in their hotel room. They’d made the trip from NYC early enough that they’d be over their jet lag, but spending a week in a no frills hotel with a tiny kitchen was taking a toll on both of them. They’d both been tired from a sleepless night, but she’d woken up enough to try and settle his nerves before they left for the film set.

“Thank you for doing this, Der,” she whispered in the early morning quiet. “I know this is so far from your thing, it’s not even in the same country as you, but this could really make our dream a reality.”

Derek leaned into her hand on his shoulder and took a deep breath to calm his panic. 

“You’re so talented,” she said. “You were born to make amazing food for Sweet Things by Hale and I was born to take care of the business side you artists don’t think about.” They both smiled at memories of their father teasing their mother at her lack of concern for the finer details of budgeting. “Just get through today, kick some ass and we’ll finally do right by them.”

They were silent during the cab ride to the set, and Laura had hugged him when they  
reached the point when she could no longer go with him. The buoyant hope that he’d been feeling had disappeared by the time he walked through the doorway.

He crossed his arms over his chest and put his back to the wall. He had about half an hour before he’d need to get into his outfit for the show, and he was going to spend it quietly and calmly trying not to tear his hair out. 

“Who do I have to blow around here to get a tiny styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee?” A voice mumbled from next to the food table. 

Derek looked over at a guy who was already wearing a chef’s jacket like the one he’d been given to wear for the filming, and looked even more like a zombie than Laura had. Derek’s surprise must have showed on his face, since the guy noticed his gaze and grimaced. 

“Sorry,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. “I don’t have much of a filter on a good day, but on 3 hours sleep and insufficient caffeine? There’s no telling what’ll come out of here.” He gestured to his mouth with a shaky hand. 

Derek suppressed a bubble of amusement, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re a baker. Aren’t you used to early mornings?”

“Nuh-uh. We serve the dessert crowd, not the morning donut people. We’re never open before 11AM, and our prep time is a finely oiled machine, precisely so that neither of us have to wake up before 8, which is approaching a normal time for human beings to be awake.”

Laura would probably lecture him for even talking with someone from the other team, but the guy looked so pathetic that Derek took pity on him. He pointed to a man he’d seen toting Starbucks cups to various producers and crew members. 

“I think if you ask him very nicely, he could get you one. No blowing required,” he added, just to see the guy squirm.

The guy blushed, but smiled brightly. “Thanks, I owe you one,” he said, and turned in the direction of the potential bringer of coffee. He made it a couple steps before he seemed to cognate what he’d said and whipped back around. “I mean, not a...you know. Just a favour. Not of the...blowing variety.” He gave up, and slouched away, muttering, “God, I need some coffee.”

Derek shook his head as he watched him go, but he appreciated that the guy had made him forget that he was about to make an idiot of himself on camera for 3 minutes. Derek gave up on trying to find some peace and quiet in the place and headed for the green room to put his outfit on. 

**

“Alright, listen up, people. We’ve got about 15 minutes until they want to start filming the opening sequence.” 

The green room was actually a sickly, faded yellow that might have been mustard at one time, which was even more horrifying. Both teams and a few sound technicians were crowded into the room, in their separate corners, while one of the producers lectured them about conduct becoming of representatives of the network. Isaac was nodding along like he was listening intently, but Derek was pretty sure he was just as zoned out as the rest of them, he just had a face that defaulted to earnest. 

Derek still felt like Isaac was a good choice for his team. He used to work in the bakery for summers and the Christmas rush. He’d looked Derek up when he’d moved to New York to go to culinary school, and they’d struck up a friendship of sorts. If he could call Isaac occasionally texting him to ask his advice on cooking techniques a friendship. Derek didn’t make friends easily, but Isaac was persistent, even inviting himself over a few times for a real time demonstration. He knew that Isaac still considered Beacon Hills his home, so Derek had offered him a spot on his team with the promise that, if they won, he’d be the first person he hired when the bakery was up and running. 

When they’d all filed in, they’d been instructed to go around the room saying their names. Derek wasn’t sure why it mattered, though, he supposed, they’d each want to know whose name they’d be curses if they lost. 

Lydia was the name of the girl he was up against. She was pretty, a pale, red-headed china doll with perfect make-up, but Derek noticed that her hands were rough and reddened from work. He knew from growing up in a family of mostly women not to underestimate someone just because they were beautiful. (Conversely, he wished people didn’t overestimate his social skills because of the way he looked.)

The guy Derek had met before, Stiles, had found his coffee. While the producer droned on about friendly competitiveness getting out of hand, Stiles caught Derek’s eye, pointed to a garishly branded paper cup, then gave a huge thumbs up. Derek nodded indulgently and gave a much less enthusiastic thumbs up back. At the producer’s pointed cough, they both went back to listening, but not before Derek caught Erica’s eye, then quickly looked away from the mischievous sparkle he saw there.

Erica’s position on the team had been a no-brainer. She’d worked at the same restaurant as Derek for the past year, mostly at the crepe station, the only job more odious than cannolis. She’d done it with a minimum of complaining, and had convinced Derek of her talent, if not the misogynistic, old-world Italian owner of the place. She was also the only person he’d met who could stand working right next to him for long hours. Everyone else Derek had ever had superiority over was scared of him. After about a day, Erica told him to screw off and move out of her way. 

Boyd had come with Erica. He didn’t have the baking calling, but he’d washed dishes at the restaurant to put himself through school as a subcontractor, so he was the perfect choice to help them with the structural integrity of their competition winning cake, and the bells and whistles Laura had told him he’d need to include. 

“Alright, folks, that’s it for now. 10 minutes until show time.” 

The teams naturally gravitated to opposite sides of the room. There was tension in the room, but it lacked the edge of animosity he’d been expecting. It was mostly a quiet nervousness, disturbed only by Stiles, who was regaling the other guy on his team with a loud story about the asshole in the bank in front of him the other day. Stiles didn’t seem to realize how impossible it was not to listen to the drama, and he seemed surprised when Isaac laughed at a particularly outlandish detail. 

“Don’t stop now, please,” Erica said, smirking. “What happened next?”

Stiles’ cheeks didn’t go pink like they had earlier, but Derek could see a ruddy flush creeping up his long neck. “It got pretty boring after that, actually. You know. Banking.”

Somehow, Derek doubted that anything Stiles did was boring. 

Stiles’ discomfort seemed to break the ice in the room, and the two teams started making small talk. Derek knew his strengths, so he faded away, grabbing a plastic cup and filling it from the pitcher of tap water they’d provided. 

“Hey,” Derek managed not to jostle the pitcher when Stiles’ voice interrupted him. “Thanks for the tip, from earlier. I feel marginally more human.” Stiles waggled his cup, now empty, as he leaned against the rickety refreshment table. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“I mean, there’s only so much that one 8 ouncer’s gonna do for me, considering my normal intake, but I’ve got a couple of Red Bulls in my bag, if it comes to it. Problem is, I promised my dad after the scrambled egg incident of ‘09 that I wouldn’t ever drink that stuff before noon.” 

“Quite the dilemma.” It was only 7AM. 

“Right? So, the question is, do I want to risk my dad’s disappointed face if end up addicted to energy drinks again, or Lydia’s vengeful talons if I fall asleep in her fondant?” 

Derek snorted into his cup, then Laura’s face loomed in his mind, judging him with dark eyebrows for finding someone on the other team so amusing. _Get your head in the game, Hale_ , she might say. Actually, probably not. 

“Shouldn’t you be over there encouraging your team leader?” Derek said, then winced at how curt he sounded. It was a brush-off, but he hadn’t intended it to be so abrupt. 

“Nah, Lydia doesn’t need a pep talk from me. She’s awesome, and she knows it.” Stiles aimed wistful stare in her direction, unfazed by Derek’s terseness. “It’s a good thing I got over my obsession with her in high school.” 

Derek followed Stiles gaze, then couldn’t keep from picturing them both as high-schoolers. Would Stiles have had had longer hair? Would he have been even skinnier than he was now? Derek could bet Lydia hadn’t changed much. “You’ve known each other a long time?”

“Yup. Classic rom-com material. She didn’t know I existed. We both moved away, went to separate culinary schools, found each other when we moved back home within a couple of months of each other. Only problem? She didn’t fall madly in love with me, and I’d switched teams. Hollywood really lost out on that one.”

“Tragic. They could have had themselves the next When Harry Met Sally.”

Stiles threw his head back and groaned, theatrically. “Oh, come on. That’s the most relevant romantic movie you could come up with? What are you, a caveman? Not even The Notebook?”

“You should be grateful I didn’t say the next Gigli.” Stiles’s response was another groan, followed by retching. 

“Okay, people!” A perky intern had popped her head through the doorway. “Let’s head over, it’s go time!”

“Hey, good luck today, man,” Stiles said, and raised his hand to shoulder height, like he wanted to pat Derek’s arm, then evidently thought better of it, and ran his! fingers through his messy hair instead.

“You too.” 

Whatever levity Derek had managed to find in their brief respite vanished under the hot lights of the set. Derek couldn’t see much beyond them, but he could make out a flurry of movement of the camera crew just beyond the edge of the kitchen. 

From the first “action” to the end of the opening sequence was a blur. Derek forgot the names of the judges immediately. The host, whose teeth were just as blindingly bright in person as they were on the small screen, also introduced a kind-looking older man who announced that his toy shop was celebrating its 30th anniversary. That was their theme, they learned. Their cake had to represent the joy and childishness of a toy store. 

There was no height requirement, as Laura had told him other shows had, (Seriously, who needed a cake that was over 6 feet tall?) but they would be judged on more than just aesthetic appeal. It had to be impressive, he knew. As he sketched out a plan, with cameras and the host hovering at his shoulders, he tried to harness all the imagination his mom and Laura had always told him he had. He could see what he wanted in his head, and he was hopeful that his vision would translate better into sponge and fondant than it did onto a two-dimensional sketch, because the cake he envisioned was a winner. 

He could definitely do this.


	3. Chapter 3

He definitely could not do this. 

They had planned for every possibility, they’d thought. They brought two or three extra of every item that hadn’t been provided by the network. They’d assigned tasks and created timelines prior to even knowing what the theme was, or what the cake would looked like. Derek had tested his recipe so many times, he was sick to death of cinnamon cake and caramel icing.

The start of the second hour on the countdown clock was when the problems started. All the cake they needed was finished and out of the oven, since they’d been allowed to bring the batter pre-mixed, but it was taking longer than Derek had expected for them to cool. The temperature in the place was skyrocketing from the masses of people, the warm lights and equipment and the multiple ovens on both teams were churning out heat. 

It wasn’t that large an issue, since they were running well enough on time that they could juggle a few things around and still be on target. But, it threw Derek, made him nervous that they were already hitting snags and they were only an hour in. 

Next, one of the plastic tubes Boyd had been preparing to attach to their base rolled off the table and was kicked by a clumsy camera man. The resulting crack in the upper half wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it was one more thing to worry about. Even as he told Boyd it would be fine, he cursed himself for not bringing more extras. He’d been sure that his cake wouldn’t be stout enough to need all six supporting poles, but, of course, he’d been proven wrong. 

Derek’s only consolation was that he could hear Lydia’s voice across the divide becoming more and more shrill, and the occasional glance over had revealed that her perfectly coiffed appearance had become a bit frazzled. 

Derek took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked down at Erica, who’d just been the bearer of more bad news. The block of fondant they’d brought to use was being stubborn, too cold from the powerful, state of the art fridge to be coloured or rolled out. Erica was no delicate flower, and she had the upper body strength that her career required of her, but she was still slight, and would wear herself out if she continued to try to work the block. 

“Here, take over,” Derek said, and slapped the sketch he’d been working from into her hand. It pained him to leave such a large, important job as sculpting the top of the cake to someone else, but Derek reminded himself that he’d chosen Erica for a reason. She was perfectly capable, and had good instincts that often lined up with his own. 

The fondant was as tough as Erica had promised, and Derek set about breaking it up so that it would thaw faster, or at the very least, be small enough to toss in the microwave. It was hard work, and he was grateful for the time he put in at the tiny, ill-equipped gym in the basement of his apartment. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched and burned as he wielded his knife and shoved the unmalleable sugar into smaller squares.

He wasn’t sure which he noticed first: The feeling that he was being watched, or the tittering from one of the judges and a female crew member. He couldn’t make out the words, but he recognized the appreciative tone of their voices. He felt his face heating up at what he imagined they were saying. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, but he didn’t like being the focus of that kind of gaze. He tried his best to ignore it, but he wasn’t very successful, especially after he heard the director lean over to a cameraman and joke, “hey, do you think I get some ‘Bow Chicka Wow’ music past the execs?” 

Derek viciously stabbed his knife into the remaining block and was just about to tell him what he could do with his porno soundtrack when a loud, echoing clang from the other kitchen made all heads(and a number of camera lenses) swivel toward the noise. 

Stiles stood next to a gigantic tin bowl that was still spinning on its rim, and ringing obnoxiously. From the looks of the clean floor, the bowl had been empty, but that didn’t stop Lydia from rounding the counter with eyes like hellfire. 

“Stiles, pull yourself together,” she demanded. “If we get behind schedule because you are too busy being jealous of a piece of fondant, I will disembowel you with a palette knife. It will hurt.”

“Sir, yes, sir. No disemboweling, please.”

They both went back to their jobs right away, Lydia using her knife to shape a block of dark reddish-brown cake, and Stiles working cooling sugar into blocky shapes, with his tongue caught at the side of his mouth between his teeth. Derek wondered what it would be like to be the sole focus of such an intense stare, and didn’t realize he’d been staring himself until Stiles looked up and their eyes met. 

Derek recovered quickly from the shock of being caught out, then pointedly looked at the tin bowl that stood, freshly washed, at Stiles’ elbow and raised his eyebrows. Lydia’s tirade had implied that Stiles’ had been one of the pairs of eyes making Derek so uncomfortable, but Stiles’ unapologetic shrug and cheeky grin made him wonder if Stiles had really been ogling him, or...

Derek shook himself and went back to his task. The last, most frozen section of the fondant was small enough now to go into their microwave, so he gave it to Boyd to blast in short bursts while he took over sculpting the cake from Erica. As he worked, he did some calculating of the time they had left. They were in good time, he thought, as long as they kept going at the speed they were at. As he hacked away at the cake, and saw his vision start to take shape, he allowed himself to hope, just a little bit, that they might come out on top. 

“Alright, competitors. Please send someone from your team to the front! It can be your team leader, or an assistant, it’s up to you, but make your decision quickly, because the clock will not be stopped.”

Derek looked around, swearing under his breath. He’d forgotten about this part. They’d discussed it, had agreed that Erica worked best under pressure, but she had started tempering her chocolate, a very time sensitive job. Isaac was stacking their completed cake on the base, a job that had to be complete before Erica could start using the chocolate she was making. Boyd met his eyes with a stare so cold that Derek didn’t dare suggest that he be the one to go up. 

Derek put down his knife and let his head hang between his shoulders. Just for a second. Then, he wiped his hands on a towel and walked to the open space where the toothy host was waiting, with Stiles by his side, bouncing on his heels in anticipation. 

The crew brought out two small tables, each draped in a cloth that Derek could see covered a variety of shapes. The toy shop owner came out with the host, and the cameras flitted around them while he told the contestants that he wanted to put their skills to the test by having them make his favourite dessert. 

With dramatic flair that made Derek want to roll his eyes, they removed the cloths from the tables, and revealed a few small glass bowls, filled with what looked to be ricotta cheese, heavy cream, cinnamon and--Cannoli shells. Pre-baked and ready to be filled, according to the host, who explained that the first of them to place the last cannoli on the plate won the challenge. 

Derek could hear Laura cackling in his mind as he set to his task, almost on autopilot, measuring, mixing and piping feverishly. He’d done this a million times, had done it when he was falling asleep on his feet, or sick from grief on an anniversary or a birthday of one of the many people in his family who were gone. All he had to do was finish--he had ten left to go--and he could go back to what he was here for. He was closing in on it, five left and he’d--

“Done.”

The shell Derek was filling crumbled in his hand as he looked over at Stiles’ table. 15 perfect confections sat, completed, on the plate. He’d lost. Derek wasn’t even angry, at first, just shocked. This kid(not a kid, his libido reminded him) had left Derek in his dust, and now he had to face the consequences.

This show was a bit different from many others of its type, in that they had a few different options to choose from when it came to rewards for winning these challenges, and they ran from benching the other team for half an hour, to taking away equipment, to simply making the losing team wear embarrassing hats. It was bizarre, but Derek had liked listening to Laura laugh on their couch while they’d marathoned the series. It had taken a long time after their family had died for her to be able to giggle like that. It still didn’t happen very often, so when it did, Derek treasured it. 

“Congratulations, Yellow Team!” The host exclaimed, as the tables were whisked away, but he sobered quickly. “Derek. Because the Yellow Team won the challenge, you’ll have to sit out for the next half hour. But, don’t worry, you can still instruct your team from the sidelines.”

Derek nodded, equal parts relieved and anxious. There would be no funny hat wearing in his future, but they were about to lose time they didn’t have to spare. Derek sat on the stool that had appeared like magic at the edge of their kitchen and took in Erica and Isaac’s grim faces. (Boyd’s was implacable as always.) He’d never been much for gushing praise or rousing speeches, but he felt, as the leader of the team, he should say something encouraging. 

“You’ve all done well so far,” he started, and clenched his hands awkwardly in front of him. “I think we can do this, if we keep going.”

“Jeez, don’t strain yourself, Derek,” Erica drawled, and threw a damp towel at him, but she and Isaac were grinning. They went back to the jobs they’d been completing before Derek had been put in time out, and he started watching the clock.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek looked up from cutting even strips of black fondant at Isaac, who had been hovering for the past 30 seconds. Isaac worked well with the other members of the team because he lacked the ego that many chefs had in spades. He wasn’t a leader, but neither was he a pushover. Sometimes, though, he hesitated when things weren’t going well. 

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“Airbrush broke. Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he said, automatically. “Unless it was your fault, in which case, run.”

“Nope, it’s just jammed or something. I’ve tried everything.” 

“Erica,” he called, to where she was helping Boyd assemble the bottom half of the cake on the base, which was, thankfully already completely covered with food colouring. “Go charm an airbrush off of the other team.”

She straightened, flipped the end of her french braid over her shoulder and pinned him with an unimpressed look. “Excuse me?” 

Derek thumbed his eyes and counted to five. (He usually counted to ten in situations like these, but he didn’t have it to spare.) “Erica, _please_ would you be so kind as to go over there and ask if we could borrow their airbrush, as it is crucial to this cake that we have it.” 

“Fine,” she said, with a sharp smile, and strode toward the other team’s kitchen. 

Derek quickly finished cutting the rest of the strips and laying them out in a pattern that resemble how they’d be on the cake, then moved on to his next moulding job. They were so close to being able to put the whole thing together. They just had to finish a few more elements. 

“No go, boss,” Erica said, in his ear.

‘What.” 

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but he could see how tense she was. “I asked, with all my charming wiles, and Lydia said no.” 

Derek slammed the delicate tool he’d been applying polkadots with and stormed over to the long counter that divided their stations. Stiles stood there, using a blowtorch that looked way too big to be the kitchen variety and wearing Ray Bans knock-offs for eye protection. 

“I need your airbrush.”

“Tough luck.” Stiles didn’t look up from the letters he was stenciling with the torch. 

“Stiles.” 

“Derek.” 

“Please,” he asked, though it pained him to beg in front of the cameras. “It’s important.” 

Stiles put down his weapon and pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head. “I wish I could help you, Derek. Honestly, I do. But we’re using it. We don’t have one to spare.” 

His stomach sank when he looked to where Stiles jerked his thumb. Sure enough, Lydia was using the spray gun on their--Jesus, their half assembled cake. “Fine.” 

He started back to his own station, his mind already frantically turning over what he could use to replace the spray colour. Sponging would take a year and a day, not to mention not provide the look he was going for. They were screwed. They were completely--

“Derek, wait.” He turned quickly back to Stiles, who was scrubbing a hand over his face and looking torn. “If you can hold on for about half an hour, we should be done with ours. That’s the best I can do.” 

Derek did some quick math in his head. If he did some more assembling now, instead of later, they’d still have time. “I’ll take it. See you in 30 minutes.”

It ended up being closer to 45, but they eventually got a hold of the gun and switched out the colouring for the dark gold they needed. The final hour passed in a mad blur of last minute details, touching up areas with sponges, sprinkling glitter to make sugar jewels shine. Derek stepped away from the completed cake when the buzzer went off, and took it in as a whole. It was just as he’d envisioned, like his childhood come to life in 300 pounds of sponge, fondant and plastic supports. 

It was a toy chest, chocolate painted on the outsides to create the wooden grain, the locks and corners covered in fake metal detail that was made to look worn and tarnished with age. It overflowed with things he and his cousins would have played with as kids: A crown, a wizard’s robe and a polka dot poodle skirt, a drum and a set of maracas, a colourful splash of building blocks. Around the bottom, a train rode around on its track, tooting its horn from a tiny speaker embedded in the confection. It was as good a cake as he could make, and he thought his family would be proud. He couldn’t wait for Laura to see it, but he still had hours to go. 

Soon after the clock ran out, Derek was urged away, back to the interview room where he was told to recount his experience. He had to relive all of the lows and the mishaps, and try to gush about the highs and triumphs. That part took considerably longer than the introduction had taken, and by the time he was dismissed he was wiped. Lydia took his place and he went back to the green room to wait for the judging to start. 

 

**

Standing in front of the judges panel and hearing his cake get lauded and ripped apart alternately was harder than Derek thought it would be. He had a thick skin, and had been expecting to hear things he disagreed with, but having spent 6 hours carefully crafting this cake that may be the key to his future, he had a bit of difficulty taking his normal step back. 

It was over soon enough, though, and he was allowed to retreat back to his team, fighting the urge to slink away like a kicked dog. Lydia didn’t receive much better treatment, though her cake was very impressive.

She’d gone for a futuristic theme, her centerpiece a gigantic angular robot that moved its arms. The whole thing was done in metallic silver and red, and plastic-looking weapons and spaceships adorned all five tiers. She rightfully got slammed for the cake’s lack of whimsy, but then was praised for the magical flashing lights and moving parts. It would certainly give Derek a run for his money, so he didn’t bother to try and predict which of them would win. 

The judges finished tearing into Lydia and the host announced that the judges would deliberate. They were dismissed once again, with a warning that they’d start again in 15 and Derek couldn’t stand the thought of going back to the depressing room with its yellow walls and counting down the minutes until they could find out whose cake they thought was worth 30 thousand dollars. 

30 thousand. It would change their lives, his and Laura’s. Leaving their tiny apartment in New York for the tiny city of Beacon Hills would be an adjustment he couldn’t wait to make. He wanted to awkwardly avoid conversations with people he knew when they ran into each other in grocery stores, get lost in the new subdivisions that all looked the same. Walk down the streets he’d travelled with his parents. He wanted Laura to finally feel like she’d done them proud by making sure Derek finished high school and kept cooking and didn’t close himself off from her in his grief. 

Derek felt the weight of the hot lights get heavier as the consequences of not winning this competition grew to spectacular proportions. Laura’s disappointed, but understanding face would be a burden on his conscience he didn’t think he could bear. He abruptly couldn’t stand to be in the midst of so many people who didn’t care one bit about the outcome of the show. Derek wove through the masses of people toward the edge of the warehouse, dying for fresh air that didn’t smell and taste of burned sugar. 

When he finally burst out the fire exit, the air wasn’t cooler--LA was too warm for that--But at least it was less stuffy. He leaned against the wall and took a few deep breaths. He needed to shore up his strength, get his emotions under control, like they always were. He scrubbed a hand across his face and didn’t look up when the door opened beside him. 

“For what it’s worth, I hope you win.” 

Derek looked over at Stiles, who made himself comfortable on the wall next to him. 

“Why? Don’t you want your boss to win?” 

He shrugged. “It’d be cool, I guess. We could buy a new van to tote everything around. Or upgrade the ovens. But that’s just stuff we already have. I heard part of your interview,” he confessed. “It’s really admirable, and you’re starting from scratch. You need it more than we do. So, good luck.” 

Stiles’ brilliant smile made a reappearance and Derek couldn’t keep himself from smiling back, even though his nerves still wormed their way around his stomach. “Thanks.” 

The door burst open next to them, and hit the wall on the other side as Lydia stepped into the sun. “Stiles!”

“Yes, Lydia, light of my life? Provider of my livelihood? Treasure of my--”

“I have been awake since 3 AM, Stiles. 3 _in the morning._ My longwear lipstick is a part of me now. It is never coming off. So, would you please shut up for a second and come inside without the commentary? They’re starting in a couple of minutes.”

“As you wish, Great and Powerful.” 

He pushed off the wall and loped inside with another grin and a wave, but Lydia lingered, her (allegedly permanently)red lips pursing before she looked into Derek’s eyes. There was pride there, certainly, and confidence that she had what it took, but there was also sincerity. 

“Good luck, Hale.”

“You too.”

He followed her back through the door, and sure enough, they were gearing back up to start. The judges were in their seats and the host at his mark. Derek stood next to his cake to wait for the cameras to set and pushed down his rising nausea. 

The lights came on for the final time and the host addressed the camera in the longest minute and a half of Derek’s life. When he’d watched the show with Laura, he’d rolled his eyes in irritation at the dramatic pauses before the big reveal, but that was nothing compared to this. 

“Contestants, you’ve worked hard to create the best cakes you could for your client. The moment has come to find out which one of you will win the 30 thousand dollar prize.”

Derek’s fists and stomach clenched. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face.

“And, the winner is…”


	5. Chapter 5

There was confetti, he was told later, and a piece got caught in his hair. He hadn’t been aware of it at the time, since the world had basically whited-out with his relief. Later, when he’d watch back the footage, he’d be embarrassed at the wideness of his smile and the jutting front teeth he’d been teased about as a kid, but in the aftermath of the announcement, all he was conscious of was that his cheeks hurt. 

The host shook his hand and the judges congratulated him on his amazing cake and he nodded at them all in a daze. When the host started wrapping up, he caught sight of Stiles, grinning like mad and clapping, before Lydia whacked the back of his head.

The assistants ushered him away after that to do one final interview of his reaction to his win. They did it in one go, Derek too elated to revert to his normal terseness. When he was finished, he went back to the kitchen to help his team pack up the detritus, but Erica just hugged him and waved him off. 

“Somebody wants to congratulate you in person,” she said, with a eyebrow-waggling leer, and a flick of a finger toward the other kitchen. 

The high-tech cake had been dismantled alarmingly quickly for the amount of time it had taken to put together, and it looked like Stiles and the other guy on the yellow team had just about packed everything while they waited for their leader to finish her interview. Both of them looked tired, but not particularly disappointed with the outcome. They smiled and joked as they worked, and Derek sort of hated to interrupt. 

“Oh, hey, Derek,” the other teammate said, stepping over a plastic tub and reaching out a hand to shake. “Congratulations. Your cake was awesome, man, you deserved it.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles clapped the guy on the shoulder and gave him a shove. “Scott, bro, we’re basically done here, do you wanna take these out to the car? Thanks a million.” 

Scott left with a cheerful salute and an unsubtle wink. Stiles blinked innocently back, then handed Derek a fork. 

“Want some cake? It’s red velvet. The real kind, not just food colouring.”

Derek leaned his elbows on the counter next to Stiles and dug into the moist, rich cake. Most of it had been donated to a local soup kitchen, Stiles told him, but they’d been allowed to keep some of it. 

“I used to think that maybe, if I worked in a bakery all day long, I’d eventually get tired of cake,” Stiles said, contemplating the bite loaded on his fork. “But it’s been almost 2 years since we’ve been open and I could still eat this for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

“Sweet tooth, huh?”

“Duh. It’s pretty much a requirement.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I usually am.” Stiles smirked and went to eat the bite on his fork, only to have it tumble to the plastic container and his teeth close on the metal tines with a click. 

Derek huffed a laugh and applauded mockingly. Derek hadn’t laughed this much with someone other than his sister in such a long time. Maybe not since his family had died. 

Stiles was able to pull it out, just by being himself, and Derek wanted more of that. His hand itched to take his phone from his pocket to see if Stiles would put his number in, or if his inept flirting would stop there, but he hesitated. He knew that the bakery Stiles worked at was in California, but it was still a pretty big state, plus Derek would be re-opening the bakery. Did he really want to start something that he couldn’t finish? 

“Lydia’s killing it, isn’t she?” Stiles broke into his indecision. 

The crew were filming across the way, close enough that they could hear Lydia wrapping up. She looked fresh as a daisy, and if Derek hadn’t known how long she’d been awake, he never would have guessed. She worked the camera with the natural aplomb that Derek would never have. 

“I did my best,” she was saying, chin tilted up. “I can go back home knowing that I did Beacon Hills proud.” 

“Wait,” Derek said, and dropped his fork on the counter with a clatter. “Beacon Hills?” 

“Yeah, born and raised.” Stiles eyed him, quizzically. “Why, you know it?”

“I…” He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “That’s where I’m from. That’s where Laura and I want to...” 

“No way. Hale. Like, those Hales? The ones who…” Stiles coughed to cover up his blunder, then laughed, nervously. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I didn’t put it together.”

Derek’s stomach dropped. Laura was going to be devastated. Her dream, and Derek’s, was inextricably tied to that town. He tried to imagine setting up shop somewhere else, but left a sour taste in his mouth.

“We were going to open up my parent’s old place,” he said, numbly. “I guess we should have realized someone else might have thought Beacon Hills needed a bakery.” 

Derek dragged his fork through the white frosting on the cake, and saw the goal that had been so close start to slip away. 

“I think you should go for it.”

Derek frowned at Stiles, suspicious at his optimism. “Wouldn’t that be stepping on your toes a bit? Beacon Hills isn’t that big.”

“If there’s room for two shady ‘ancient Chinese’ sensual massage parlours in Beacon Hills,” his finger quotes sent crumbs flying across the counter, “there’s room for two bakeries.”

Derek burst out laughing, the flame of hope that had been fanned and smothered again and again all day leaping to life. It sounded like Beacon Hills had changed a little more that he’d thought. Maybe enough that Sweet Things by Hale would be just as welcome as Lydia’s bakery. 

The cake lay, forgotten, on the counter. Derek looked at Stiles, at the residue of sweet buttercream that clung to his lips. It might be too soon, considering that they’d met less than 24 hours ago, and they hadn’t been on their first date yet, but that shining bit of sugar was too delicious for him to resist. He closed the distance and kissed him, and Stiles’ mouth was flavoured with chocolate. 

“Hey, Stiles?” Derek asked, when they broke apart.

Stiles voice was deeper and a bit hazy. “Yeah?”

“Could you put your number in my phone? I’m going to be moving soon, and I want to be able to ask you where to satisfy my sweet tooth.”

Stiles grinned and smeared a bit of frosting on Derek’s lips before leaning in for another sweet kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! There MIGHT be a sequel in the works, but it'll probably be a bit before I start working on it. Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you enjoyed it/would like to read more!


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